JUNE 21, 2011—JUNE 24, 2011
Making it into New Hampshire gave me hope that I could survive my shin splints and continue my pursuit of the record. I had made it out of the remote forests and unforgiving terrain in Maine, and the following state, Vermont, would be much kinder—the path much softer—than anything I had experienced so far on this hike.
I was convinced that my shin splints were caused by repeated high mileage days on rocky terrain. I had trained by stringing together thirty-, forty-, and fifty-mile days this spring, but my practice hikes had all taken place in the southeast, where the trail is composed mostly of dirt. And in Maine and New Hampshire, the trail comprises granite slabs and rock steps where the tread doesn’t offer any cushion or comfort. So far, each foot strike was like being hit in the legs with a wrecking ball. But if I could just make it through New Hampshire, I knew the trail would be more forgiving.
I had to make it to Vermont. If I could do that, then my legs would begin to heal and I would feel better.
The key to getting to Vermont was good weather. I needed three days without lightning and thunderstorms to make it over these mountains. The exposed ridgelines in New Hampshire were deadly in an electrical storm, so if a front settled in, then I would not be able to continue until it lifted. The memorial crosses in the exposed alpine tundra were constant reminders that no matter how badly I wanted the record, it was not worth risking my life.
I tried to make it as far as I could on my first day in New Hampshire. The fronts of my shins were on fire during the descent into Pinkham Notch, and I traveled with my hands on the rocks, bear-crawling backward down the steep slope to ease the pain.
When I got to the Pinkham Notch Visitor Center, I knew that I needed to keep going, but the question was how far.
“You need to make it to the top of Mount Washington,” said Warren.
But it was another fourteen very difficult miles to the top of Mount Washington.
“Should I take my pack with a tent and sleeping bag in case the weather turns and I can’t make it?”
“It’s not worth the weight,” Warren said. “If the weather turns, you can stop at the Madison Springs Hut after eight miles. Otherwise, you need to make it to the top of the mountain, and you won’t be able to do that with a full pack.”
My stomach churned, partly due to the 1,000-calorie McDonald’s Value Meal I had just ingested in ten minutes’ time, but mainly because I did not have a good feeling about this. Mount Washington was notorious for bad weather. At one time, it had the fastest recorded wind speed in the world. There was the potential for a snow or ice storm during any month of the year, and there was no protection leading to the summit.
“I’m nervous about night hiking alone on Mount Washington,” I protested. “And even if I do make it to the top, there is no place to camp up there!”
I was running into logistical problems because I had fallen off Warren’s schedule. Not only could I not make it to a road, but there was no camping allowed around the buildings on Mount Washington, and there wasn’t any camping allowed alongside the trail, either. Even if camping had been allowed, the only place to set up a tent would have been on sharp, jagged rocks. Still, an uncomfortable, illegal, half-pitched shelter still seemed better than risking my life in a storm.
“I will hike out to you,” said Warren. “Brew can drive me to the summit, but he will have to leave when the building at the top closes. They don’t let any cars stay in the parking lot. I will pack your food and sleeping bag and come and find you. Then after you reach the summit, we can hike down to Lake of the Clouds Hut together and sleep indoors.”
Planning to stay at Lake of the Clouds was a gamble. Not only was it farther down the trail than the Mt. Washington Observatory, but there was also the chance that there might not be room for us there.
The huts in the White Mountains are very different from the wooden shelters that are located every seven or eight miles along most the Appalachian Trail. In the Whites, the accommodations are designated for paying customers, and reservations for Lake of the Clouds Hut were made months in advance. I knew there wouldn’t be any spots for the two of us in a bunkroom. But hopefully we could stay in the basement that is sometimes available to thru-hikers. Usually thru-hikers will “pay” for their lodging in the aptly named “Dungeon” by providing manual labor in return for their stay. Obviously, I didn’t have four hours to spare washing dishes, but I knew Warren would do my chores if he needed to.
I silently nodded at Warren. We had a plan. I still didn’t feel good about it, but I couldn’t spend any more time thinking it through. I had to keep hiking.
Three hours later, after eight miles of climbing, I hiked past Madison Hut. I walked quickly and quietly, hoping not to draw any attention to myself. I was afraid that some of the staff members would come out and stop me if they saw what looked like a “day hiker” heading toward the summit so late in the day. Thankfully, no adults left the building, but two young children ran around the dirt courtyard, playing games outside before the sun went down.
One of the children stopped when she saw me walking nearby and looked at me curiously. She knew that all the other grownups were sitting inside the hut, enjoying their evening coffee and tea. The sun was going down and I was going away from the safe haven. I hiked higher and farther away from the hut, and every time I looked back, I could still see the young girl watching me.
When I could no longer see the girl or the hut, the wind on top of the mountain began to grow stronger. I continued hiking, tilting my head to shield my face from the strong, cold currents that ripped over the mountain.
Every few seconds, I would have to look up to make sure I was still walking toward the next cairn. There was no defined path on top of Mount Washington. The trail was one long scree field, and the only markers were the large piles of rocks stationed every thirty yards.
The sun soon dropped below the horizon and I pulled my headlamp out of my daypack and turned it on. The trail made a ninety-degree turn and the grade increased. I was now on the spine of the northeast ridge, a ridge that seemed as old and worn as the skeleton of a brontosaurus in a natural history museum. I began to feel the clouds move past me at an increasing speed. The air felt thicker, and my headlamp highlighted the small particles of moisture in the air. It became increasingly difficult to spot the next cairn through the mist. Every time I reached a rock pile that marked the trail, I would stop and scan the horizon. I examined the landscape to try and decipher which direction the path veered. However, at each subsequent cairn, it was harder and harder to make out the route.
My headlamp was insufficient for piercing through the clouds, so I dug into my pack and pulled out my spare flashlight. I always carried a spare light in case my headlamp broke or ran out of batteries. After losing our first flashlight in our messy car, Brew had picked up an extra one at the local hardware store. It weighed nearly half a pound and seemed misplaced amid the rest of my lightweight hiking gear, but it had a light like a tractor beam. I turned it on and could immediately make out the next trail marker.
Because of the fog and the mist, I had entirely lost my perspective on how much farther I had to hike to reach the summit. I was moving very slowly over the slick, wet rocks when the flashlight in my hand began to flicker.
I remembered Brew saying that this light should last for five hours before we needed to replace the batteries, and I immediately began to calculate all the times I had used it in the past week. It suddenly occurred to me that this flashlight might be on its last hour of life, and I was still several miles from the summit.
I picked up my phone to call Warren. It went directly to his voicemail.
“Warren, where are you? Are you hiking out to meet me? It’s getting really hard to make out the trail and I am worried that my flashlight might be dying. Please call me back if you get this.”
Then I tried to call Brew. I wanted to know if he had any idea when Warren left the summit to walk out and meet me. My phone went straight to Brew’s voicemail, as well. I knew that he would worry, so I phrased my message carefully.
“Hey, honey, it’s close to 9:30 p.m. and I am about an hour past Madison Hut. It’s dark and misty up here, but I’m doing okay. I should be meeting up with Warren pretty soon. Call me back and let me know if you have any idea when he started hiking. Okay, well . . . I love you.”
I put the phone back in my pack. Then I stood up and resumed my slow, steady march up the mountain.
When the sun disappeared completely, so did any of my remaining confidence. Having to walk after the sun went down in Maine and New Hampshire was grueling physically and emotionally because the trail in those two states threatens hard falls and scraped knees during the day. But at night, the dangers are even more severe. I was reduced to a crawl. But at least it was a figurative crawl—for now.
My body was exhausted. Then, on the slopes of Mount Washington, one of the most perilous places on the entire trail, the wind began to gain even more strength and the mist turned into rain.
The rain masked the tears that fell from my chin to the rocks below. I was shocked and embarrassed at how much I had wept since the start of the journey. I would certainly set the record for being the biggest crybaby on an endurance hike. But for the first time in the past few days, I wasn’t crying because of sheer pain. My legs still hurt, but the weight of my fear was worse.
This is why my mother hates the idea of thru-hiking. This is not safe—it’s idiotic! Why? Why did I feel the need to try this record?
I thought back to my first experience on Mount Washington. It was 2005 and I was toward the end of my first A.T. thru-hike. I was in roughly the same place on a sunny, clear day, when I saw Andrew Thompson, the tall blond trail runner, bounding up the path. He had a smile on his face that suggested he was having fun. Damn it! Why did he have to make it look so easy?
No wonder his trail record had stood for the past seven years. How on earth did I ever have the gall to think I could break it?! This was no longer about the record. This was about my life. I had to make it safely off this mountain. I couldn’t believe Warren had talked me out of carrying my tent and sleeping bag. Where was he?!
I kept putting one foot in front of the other, taking a break every few steps to locate the next cairn and look for Warren’s flashlight beam. The fact that we had not met up made me question whether I was even on the right path. The darkness felt endless. The rocks below me were loose, and the clacking they made when I put my weight on them filled the air. I began to pray.
God, please get me off of this mountain. Please help my flashlight to last until I get to safety. I don’t care if I make it to the top of the mountain. I don’t care ifl made a wrong turn and am headed toward a hut—-justget me off this mountain!
At that moment, my headlamp flickered and dimmed. Up to this point, I had been worried about losing battery power in my flashlight, not in my headlamp! The light on my forehead did not go out completely, but its reduced power made it almost worthless. I turned it off to preserve the remaining energy. Now all I had to guide me to the summit was my flashlight with limited battery power.
I thought about Brew lying sleepless somewhere at the base of this mountain. I knew with certainty that he was worried about me and praying for me. That knowledge only made things worse. How could I do this to him?
I carried my regrets and fear up the mountain, listening to the rocks and the wind for the next hour. Then I finally heard a new sound. It was a voice calling to me through the fog—it was Warren. I kept hiking and heard the call again. Now, when I looked up, I could see his headlamp. It was stationary. I used his position like a lighthouse to guide my course. When I finally began to make out the outline of his body, I also saw the roof of the building that crowns Mount Washington. I was at the summit.
I felt an immediate sense of relief. My muscles relaxed, and my speed increased as I walked over and placed my hand on the worn wooden sign that marks the top of the mountain. Then, at the exact moment I touched the sign, my flashlight died.
I was momentarily overcome with disbelief and thanksgiving. My flashlight had lasted until the exact instant when I reached the top of the mountain. Thank you, Jesus!
But now that I was safely at the summit, in complete darkness, my amazement quickly transformed to anger. Looking around for Warren, I could no longer see his headlamp.
“Where are you?” I asked at first, but then I quickly rephrased my question before he could answer. “Where were you?” I demanded.
He flickered his light on and off to reveal his location. Then, in the flashing strobe of his headlamp, he put a single finger up to his pursed lips.
I was supposed to be quiet? I didn’t want to be quiet. I wanted to be angry! What was Warren doing at the top of the mountain?
Now that I was safe, I was also mad. I had spent the past two hours feeling frightened and unsafe, and all of that could have been avoided if Warren had hiked out to meet me.
Obeying his command not to talk, I followed him down some rock steps leading to the basement of the building, then he opened a door that he had left propped open with a rock, and ushered me inside. I followed him into a utility closet. He shut the door and locked it.
“Good job,” he whispered.
“Where were you?!” My voice was quiet but shrill.
“I didn’t want to slow you down.”
“But I was going at a crawl, and I was afraid my flashlight was going to die the entire time.”
“Well, at one point, I saw two lights coming up the trail, and I thought maybe you had found someone else to hike with.”
“They were both mine!” The idea that I would find someone on top of Mount Washington in a rainstorm at night was absurd.
“It’s late and you’re tired,” said Warren. “I don’t think it’s safe to go down the wet rocks to reach Lake of the Clouds in the dark. Let’s sleep here, and you can keep going when the sun comes up.”
Warren had brought me some dry clothes and a package of cold rehydrated spaghetti. He had placed my sleeping mat next to a puddle of green slime that was dripping out of a nearby pipe. I changed clothes, choked down some dinner, and then lay down to try to get six hours of sleep. As I was zipping up my sleeping bag, a red light came on in the corner of the room, and then a sound like someone cranking a lawnmower echoed loudly off the walls. I don’t know what it was, but it was on a timer that went off every thirty minutes. The disrupted sleep made it the worst, most uncomfortable night since we’d left Katahdin.
The next morning, I was so groggy that I felt sick. The queasi-ness in my stomach made it difficult to get out of my sleeping bag, eat breakfast, and pack up. And it took longer than I wanted to get ready.
At 5:50 a.m., we headed downhill in the fog and rain to Lake of the Clouds Hut. The wind was so strong that it would have carried away our words, so we didn’t talk. We just hiked. A little over a mile later, we ducked into the Lake of the Clouds Hut. We were both sopping wet.
As soon as we entered, a staff member said, “Oh you must have been the hikers we heard about.”
Warren froze like a deer in headlights. I knew he was worried that we would be fined or, if nothing else, reprimanded for camping at the observatory on the summit. In that moment, I didn’t care about any penalty or criticism. I just wanted something warm to drink.
The young man continued. “We got a radio call late last night from a man who was really worried about his wife and her friend. Man, I’m glad to see that you two are all right. Help yourself to some coffee. It’s on the house.”
A free drink was a far cry from a citation. I filled my cup halfway with sugar then almost to the top with cream before finishing it off with a little bit of coffee. Warren sat down beside me. I looked at my cell phone to see if I had service, but I didn’t. I wanted to call Brew as soon as possible and let him know I was okay.
“I am going to take a shorter route down the mountain,” Warren said. “I have a map of the Mount Washington trails. Do you want it?”
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine,” I said.
“Well, take your time at the intersections. You only have a few feet of visibility, and the trail isn’t very well marked.”
I nodded. Then, after one more gulp of brown sugary sludge, I gathered my pack and headed toward the door.
On my descent down Mount Washington, the trail was no longer on rocks. It followed a thin dirt path. The dirt caused my shins not to hurt quite as much, and it also made route finding much easier. I followed the path down, down, down the mountain. Each time I arrived at a trail junction, I took a deep breath, examined the sign, located the next white blaze, and then went confidently in that direction.
I was making great time. When I arrived at Mizpah Hut, I pulled out my cell phone and texted Brew, letting him know I should be at the car in about two hours. Then I stayed on the path and kept hiking.
I didn’t remember every twist and turn of the trail from my previous hikes, but I had a general sense of what the trail should do, and I recalled most of the major landmarks. Past Mizpah Hut, I knew that the trail should continue descending to reach Webster Cliffs. This time around, the path kept going down, but it was taking much longer than I remembered to reach the rocky ledges. Then I came to a river crossing—I definitely didn’t remember a river crossing. I forded it, praying that the falling rain had simply made a small creek swell to look like a river. But on the opposite bank, I still didn’t see a white blaze. Was I off the trail? How could that happen? I didn’t even pass a trail junction where I could have taken a wrong turn. Or did I?
I didn’t know where I was, but I became convinced that I was no longer on the A.T. I had just traveled three miles on a steep downhill grade, and now I would have to turn around and climb back uphill to try to find the trail. In the best-case scenario, this would cost me several extra miles and a few hours of hiking. On a typical thru-hike that would be depressing, but on a record attempt it felt disastrous. The trail changes length from year to year due to reroutes. In 2005, it was 2,175 miles long. This year it was 2,181. That meant I was already going to have to hike six more miles than Andrew, and now that I had gotten lost, I might have to hike twelve more miles than he traveled. Twelve miles! That was at least four hours, and four hours was an eternity on a record hike.
My heart was racing. I felt confused, frustrated, and lost, really lost. Instead of immediately turning around and rushing uphill, I did what I always do when I get lost. I sat down, ate a snack, drank some water, and pulled out my guidebook to study where I could have gone wrong. Even though it was still pouring rain, I acted as calm and casual as a dayhiker pausing for a snack on a sunny day. This had become my tradition after one too many wrong turns on the Pacific Crest Trail in 2006. My immediate instinct was to try to fix my mistake without stopping to figure out where I was, and often, this led me farther from the right path. This intentional routine helped me to calm down, collect my thoughts, and not let one mistake lead to another. It was a Zen moment in an otherwise cataclysmic situation.
After I finished my last cracker, I took a deep breath, packed, and then stood up to begin hiking. As soon as I was vertical, the panic and adrenaline returned. I began fighting the trail, trying to climb uphill as quickly as possible and run in sections that were hardly suitable for scrambling. I was not thinking clearly; I was just conscious that I had to make up time and I had to make it to the next road crossing.
I slipped and fell several times rushing up the mountain, but in a little over an hour, I made it back to Mizpah Hut, and I found where I had made the mistake. There was a trail sign at the hut, but it was positioned in a location where only northbound hikers could see it. I have long believed that the Appalachian Trail is better marked for people going north than it is for those going south. Usually, after one or two southbound thru-hikers makes a wrong turn, they will leave notes or stick arrows to help prevent other hikers from making the same mistake. But I was the first southbound hiker to reach the Whites, and I was the one making the mistakes. I paused briefly to send Brew another text. Then I placed a stick arrow on the trail, spat on the south-facing sign, and continued my chaotic run-hike down the mountain.
I was in a frenetic state. My motion wasn’t fluid or efficient. I had lost the ability to think rationally, so I was not pacing myself for a thirty-five—correction, now a forty-one-mile—day. Instead, I was racing downhill recklessly. All I knew was that I had been stuck in a rain storm on Mount Washington for the past eighteen hours, I had gotten lost on a trail that I had hiked twice before, and I might have just cost myself the record. At this point, I only wanted to get to my husband and end this ungodly section.
Forcing my way downhill as quickly as possible, through puddles and slick mud, I started to fall—a lot. I wiped out on the water-saturated wooden bog logs that protect the swampy sections of the trail. I tripped over roots, usually landing on an arm or hip. At one point, my foot got stuck behind a rock and I went sailing off the side of the trail, where my head hit a tree. I thought I might pass out. For a moment, It felt like a gray tunnel was closing in on my vision, but then my normal sight returned, so I stood up, wiped off some of the mud that covered my legs, and kept careening down the mountain.
When I arrived at Webster Cliffs, I threw my body down the rocks like a Plinko chip on The Price is Right, with no regard to where I might land. Even in the moment, when I reached the base of the rock scramble, it struck me as a miracle that I was not seriously injured, especially since the scramble looked more like a waterfall in the unrelenting rain.
Past the cliffs, the trail became less technical, and I started to fall less often. And as the hiking improved, so did my attitude. I no longer wanted to think about getting lost in the rain or stuck on Mount Washington, and I definitely didn’t want to cry, so instead I started singing at the top of my lungs. I don’t have a good memory for songs, partly because I am tone deaf. So I repeated the same choruses over and over again until I finally reached the road at Crawford Notch.
I hiked over to the car. Melissa was in the passenger seat and there wasn’t any room to sit in the back.
So I opened the passenger door and said, “Out!”
It was still pouring rain but I didn’t care if Melissa had to stand outside for a few minutes and get wet. My hands were wrinkled, and my skin was pale and flaky. I needed to be inside a dry vehicle. I needed to be with my husband.
Brew had a look of bewilderment on his face.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Don’t ask.”
“I was really worried.”
“No, and Warren was supposed to call us last night, but I didn’t hear from him then and I haven’t heard from him today. I even radioed Lake of the Clouds looking for you! I’ve been worried sick.”
“Well, we camped out on top of Mount Washington in a utility closet where green sludge dripped near my head and toxic fumes practically poisoned us. Also a loud crank woke us up every half hour. Then I hiked all day in the rain and got lost. I got off the trail by three miles, so it was six miles round-trip.”
“Six miles?!”
“I don’t want to talk about it!” I screamed. “It is all I can do right now not to cry.”
Brew nodded his head. He knew me well enough to know I would not be rational until I had some dry clothes on my body and food in my stomach. I was already undressed, with a sleeping bag wrapped around me. We had been through weather like this enough times by now to have a routine. I would immediately change out of my wet, cold clothes; wrap up in a sleeping bag; eat; drink; and then put on dry clothes and keep going.
While I warmed up and started shoving food in my mouth, Brew turned on the car’s CD player. He started blasting my favorite Mumford and Sons song since I’d been singing its chorus over and over on the trail. I was thankful to hear all the lyrics. I listened to them carefully, hoping to remember some of the additional stanzas for the next time I needed to sing out loud.
One line in particular resonated in my mind and refueled my heart.
“I know my call despite my faults
And despite my growing fears.”
Then I joined the band and my husband on the chorus that I knew so well:
“I will hold on hope
And I won’t let you choke
On the noose around your neck
And I’ll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I’ll know my name as it’s called again.”
The past twenty-six miles had been filled with fear and doubt. Hiking into Crawford Notch, I was worried that everything up to that point—all my dreams, all my planning and training, the grueling three-hundred and forty-five miles to get here—was all for naught. But I still felt like I was supposed to keep hiking. I still felt called to give this trail everything I had. My inhibitions would just have to be put on hold; right now I needed to keep going.
After thirty minutes, I was warm and dry, I was smiling, I had consumed about 1,300 calories, and I was still belting out songs with my husband. Then I heard a knock on the window. Melissa was still outside in the pouring rain, bedraggled and shivering. She was clearly ready to climb back inside the car.
I kissed Brew, grabbed my daypack, which he had refilled with snacks, and charged back into the storm.
There is a brief respite in New Hampshire to all the ups and downs and rocks and roots and scrambles, and that’s when the trail follows an old railroad bed to Zealand Falls Hut. For the first time since entering the Hundred-Mile Wilderness on day one, I was able to hike more than three miles per hour. I made decent time beyond the hut as well, except for the fact that the trail was very poorly marked once again. I had better luck looking behind me for the northbound blazes than staring ahead for the southbound ones.
The rain eventually turned into a drizzle and then a light mist. Just before dusk, I saw two trail runners heading in my direction. They weren’t wearing packs, and I was certain they were staying at a nearby hut and were just out for some evening exercise. I stepped to the side to let them pass. The second one looked at me and said, “Well, you’re still smiling. That’s good.”
I pressed my fingers to my lips. I could hardly believe it—I really was smiling! I had spent the past twenty-four hours feeling scared, lost, and frustrated, not to mention cold and wet. But through it all, I was still on the trail, still moving forward, and still smiling.
I thought once again about Andrew Thompson and the grin he wore while powering up the slopes of Mount Washington. And he had been hiking in good weather! Despite all the hardship of the past ten days, in that moment, I felt like a contender. I felt like I belonged.
The rain returned the next morning, and as I climbed the trail toward Franconia Ridge, the temperature dropped and the wind picked up, too. I knew exactly what was coming, but the only way to get past it was to go through it.
As soon as I left tree cover, it felt like an onslaught of shotgun pellets sprayed the left side of my body. The sleet burned my cheeks. Every other inch of me was covered, but I had never fully dried out the day before so I had felt chilled and damp even before the ridge. Now, the bitter wind turned my cold, damp body to ice.
The wind was much stronger than it had been on Mount Washington, and at one point, it knocked me forward onto my knees. I was sure the fall would add another bruise to my already black-and-blue legs. But at least those battle wounds were only skin-deep. The worst pain still screamed out from the bones and muscles of my shins, and the cold weather intensified the injury.
The path on top of Franconia Ridge slaloms through rock formations, and in the rare instance when I was protected from Mother Nature’s fury, I would take a brief moment to collect myself before heading back into the storm. Even though I had three long-sleeved layers on my upper body, I was still freezing. When I arrived at the next boulder outcropping, I used it as a shield against the wind and opened my daypack. I didn’t have any more clothing, but I took out a plastic bag that had been keeping some of my gear dry. I ripped three holes in it: one large hole for my head and two smaller ones for my arms. It was hard to make the holes, then get the bag over my head because my hands, which were placed in a pair of extra wool socks for warmth, had gone completely numb.
I was shivering violently, and when I started hiking again, I tried to sing like the day before. I wanted to do something—any-thing—to take my mind off the weather, the cold, and my aching legs. I tried to yell out the same Mumford and Sons chorus that helped me off Mount Washington. Not only was I off-key, but all the words coming from my lips sounded mumbled.
All I wanted to do was stop behind the next large boulder and curl into a tight ball with my knees against my chest and my head between my arms. But I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to survive.
Based on my Wilderness First Responder training, I knew that I had the “umbles.” My stumbling and mumbling meant that I had already passed the beginning stages of hypothermia and would now be classified as a moderate hypothermic patient. Being aware of my condition made it even worse. If my self-diagnosis was correct, I would have to do everything in my power to make sure I did not get any worse.
Once again, my thoughts were no longer about the record or completing the trail. Just get to your husband, I thought. Just make it to Brew.
I repeated my mantra out loud, “Jusss-t-t hik-k-k-ke t-t-to B-B-B-Brew.”
The sound of my own voice scared me, so I went back to the self-talk in my head. But my thoughts were as rapid and misplaced as my feet had been.
Make it to Brew, get to Brew, I thought.
Then another voice filled my head. YOU IDIOT! it said. What have you done now?
I took a deep breath. It’s gonna be okay, it’ll all be okay. Brew will make it better, hike to your husband, you belong. . .
But then I was interrupted by my own self-doubt. No, no I do not belong up here. I BELONG WITH BREW
It was as if I had turned into Gollum in The Lord of the Rings. I was acting schizophrenic. I was fighting with my thoughts to keep them positive, and I was fighting with my body to keep it moving.
Franconia Ridge seemed much longer than it had on either of my two previous hikes. On a clear day you can easily see the point along the ridge where the trail returns to the forest, but in the midst of the storm that place did not seem to exist.
I finally made it out of the wind and sleet, but the improved conditions did not help me feel any better. I felt rigid, calcified. My joints could hardly bend, and I walked like Frankenstein down the stone steps leading to Franconia Notch.
Before reaching the road crossing, I saw our tent next to the trail. Brew knew the conditions on the ridge would be tough, so he had hiked in a quarter mile with our tent, sleeping bags, dry clothes, and food.
I forced my stiff body to crumple itself into the tent, then Brew helped me take off my trash bag and the three layers of wet clothes and wrapped me in two sleeping bags. Next he placed both his hands on top of the sleeping bags and began to massage my body. There was very little conversation. I was too cold to speak, and Brew was too worried.
It took about twenty minutes for my teeth to unclench and for my arms to unclasp from around my chest. As soon as they did, I began to eat and drink. Part of why I got cold so quickly was because I was already wet. Another reason was that I was always suffering from a calorie deficit. No matter how hard I tried, I could never take in enough food to provide adequate fuel for my starving muscles.
I drank a large coffee from McDonald’s that Brew had picked up earlier in the day and then shoveled two sausage biscuits down my throat. After that, I chugged a coke and started alternating between handfuls of candy and potato chips. There were nutritious foods in the tent as well, but my body was screaming for the immediate fat, calories, sugar, and caffeine of the junk food.
After another fifteen minutes, I reluctantly began to unwrap from my sleeping bag cocoon.
“Here,” said Brew as he handed me a full plastic bag. “I brought you a dry set of clothes to change into.”
I put on a dry sports bra, shirt, socks, and shoes, but something was missing. Brew had forgotten to pack a dry pair of shorts. I looked at him across the tent and pointed at his lower half.
He knew exactly want I wanted.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he exclaimed. But even as he was protesting, he began to take off his shorts.
I pulled his wide, baggy shorts up around my waist and cinched them tight. I was now covered from head to toe. I had a beanie on my head, a long-sleeve wool shirt, and a rain jacket on my core. I wore Brew’s baggy shorts past my knees, and compression socks around my calves.
“You look awesome!” said Brew.
“Yeah, right,” I said.
“No, seriously!” I looked up and realized that my husband was not just saying this to make me feel better. He was giving me an unfamiliar look, one filled with admiration. “You look like some kind of badass basketball player-hiker—like, the definition of hardcore. I would be so intimidated to pass you on the trail right now.”
Whether he meant to or not, Brew had given me the pep talk that I needed. In one hour, I had gone from thinking I might need to be rescued off a ridge to feeling “hardcore.” I was excited to exit the tent and keep hiking. As I walked down the trail, I glanced back to see Brew taking down the tent in his boxers. He didn’t look hardcore; but standing there folding our rain-fly in his down jacket and The Grinch Who Stole Christmas boxers, he did look pretty sexy.
For the first time in days, my legs felt fresh and strong as I journeyed toward Lonesome Lake, then up the steep climb to North Kinsman Mountain. My shin splints still hurt, but it was a quiet ache instead of a deafening scream. I was so happy to be dry, warm, and alive that I started to hike smart and hard. I didn’t try to force my way down the trail, but I did have a lot of adrenaline left over from Franconia Ridge, and I used it all to make efficient forward progress over very difficult terrain. I had survived Mount Washington, I had survived hypothermia, and now if I could just keep going, I could make it out of the Whites by nightfall.
I reached the base of Moosilauke and the next road crossing much earlier than I expected. It was late afternoon, and if I could make it over one more mountain by nightfall, I would still be on pace to complete Maine and New Hampshire in ten days, and I would still be on pace to set the record.
When Brew saw me coming toward him, his surprise gave way to a grin. Then he shouted, “C’mon!” at the top of his lungs. I responded by slapping my thigh, then clutching my fist under my chin like Serena Williams before match point. I was so motivated that I didn’t even sit down at the car; I just chugged a thirty-two-ounce chocolate protein shake and grabbed a turkey wrap like it was a baton.
If the terrain had allowed it, I would have run up the mountain. I had one more calf-burning vertical climb filled with rebar and wooden steps screwed into the granite rock face, then I would never have to experience terrain this difficult again!
The sun was setting when I arrived at the top of Moosilauke. I raised my hands and let out a primitive yell. The resulting noise surprised me. I sounded less like a cheerleader and more like a mountain woman. This time, maybe for the first time, my victory cry sounded as good in the air as it did in my head.
Pausing for a moment, I turned toward the east and could see the steep, jagged peaks behind me. They looked like a shark’s mouth, with layer upon layer of pointed teeth. Then I turned back toward the west to the rolling green mountains that looked as soft and symmetrical as the arc of a rainbow. I smiled and kept walking. I was through the worst of it.
